


The Designated Driver

by Prochytes



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Torchwood
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 05:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prochytes/pseuds/Prochytes
Summary: In a world half-empty, a former bus-driver chauffeurs a current Woman in Black, who has not been especially honest about her itinerary.





	The Designated Driver

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Torchwood_ to the end of S3, for _Doctor Who_ to “Resolution”, and _Avengers: Infinity War_.

Wednesday evening tended to be a problem. The rest of the week had its opportunities. Monday meant late opening at the library, and Tuesday boasted Silver Screen offers down at the Picture Palace. Thursday night was Quiz Night at _The Plough_ , and Friday was, essentially, the weekend – which posed problems of its own, but ones different from those of a working week that didn’t work.

Wednesday was another matter. There was a temptation to wring every last second out of the opening hours at the municipal gardens. That, however, would be a schoolboy error. The neighbouring gallery shut half an hour later, and wouldn’t let you go in if you tried it less than three quarters of an hour before that.

Time was dough. You had to knead your allotted portion, thoroughly and with scrupulous attention, if you wanted it to expand and fill the void. Otherwise, you would find yourself falling back on the resorts of the desperate: twenty-four hour supermarkets, denuded, now, of their Special Offers stands (no one, vendor or buyer, could stomach Two-For-One offers anymore); or dank arcades in the shabby part of town, which had been half-empty long before the world was.

***

“Graham O’Brien?” The voice was clear and Welsh.

“Who’s asking?” Graham squinted up against the reddening rays. He reckoned that this bench could be squeezed for another twenty minutes, before the sun’s descent behind the gables across the way forced him on.

“My name is Gwen Cooper. You don’t know me, but we had a friend or two in common. Mind if I sit?”

“Be my guest.”

“Thanks.” The Welshwoman settled on the bench beside Graham, stretching long booted legs across the gravel, and a leather-jacketed back against the plaque (“Albert Squirry, 1935-2016, who spent many a happy hour in this park”). “I have a proposition for you, Graham.”

“Really?” Graham was instantly alert. There were funny folk about, since… what had happened, happened. Graham had heard stories about strange sects recruiting. He found it hard to see why anyone would be exercised by that sort of thing anymore, with the End of Days receding in the rear-view mirror. But people coped whatever way they could. “What do you have in mind?”

“I need a good driver.”

Graham snorted. “Barking up the wrong tree, love. I’m retired.”

“I think this job will make you hang up your bus-pass.”

“Unlikely. Why?”

The Welshwoman stared out across the park, at the desultory playground. There was a swing with one edge dangling higher than the other. Graham wondered, vaguely, how two bits of chain and a panel got snarled like that. “Well, for one thing,” she replied, “it’ll give you a reason to be somewhere else.”

“When do I start?” said Graham.

***

“I take it that you’re covered for the insurance?” Graham wheezed as he struggled to keep up. Gwen Cooper walked quickly, and he had had no reason to run for quite a while.

“Insurance isn’t going to be a problem.”

“What about wages?”

“You’ll find the pay-off of the trip to be more than worth it.”

“Are we talking minibus or coach?”

“Oh, I don’t want you to drive a ’bus.” Gwen halted as they emerged from a side-street, and pointed. Graham’s stomach lurched as he followed her finger. He hadn’t kept track of where she was leading him. “I want you to drive her.”

Graham, shuddering, turned his back on the old remembered blue that glinted at him from across the square, and shoved the Welshwoman up against the wall. “Who the bloody hell are you, Gwen Cooper? What do you want from me?”

“It’s just as I said, Graham.” Gwen’s voice was calm. He noticed, even through the haze of anger, that her right foot was braced against the bricks. She wasn’t fighting his grip, but he hadn’t taken her off-balance. “I need a good driver.”

“Who are you with? Those military types who lost their funding when the UK ate itself?”

“I’m not UNIT.”

“Oojamaflip, then, the ones with all the Nazis?”

“Neither am I S.H.I.E.L.D..” Gwen sighed. “I’m Torchwood.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No reason you should. We were disavowed before disavowed was cool.”

Graham released his hold on Gwen. She adjusted her jacket, while he looked once again across the square. “Let’s assume for a moment that you’re on the level. What makes you think that I can drive the TARDIS?”

“If what I’ve heard is true, The Doctor showed you how. They say she got more forthcoming about that sort of thing towards… towards the end.”

“Yes.” Graham swallowed. “The Doc did show me. But knowing how’s only half the battle, isn’t it? Actually to get anywhere, you’d need to have…”

“Co-ordinates. Like these.” Gwen had retrieved a crumpled envelope from her pocket. Its back was densely lathered with equations. “I can tell you where we need to go, Graham. You’ll be the one who takes us there.”

“All the same…”

“No temporal component to worry about. I doubt she’s even up to time-travel, anymore. Just five short trips, and then a longer one. Not much more than a fancy bus-ride, really.”

Graham scowled, irresolute. “I’m still not sure.”

“If you’d rather not, your bench awaits.”

Graham pursed his lips. “Fine.” He headed out across the square. “I still have a key.”

***

The square presented, now, a pristine surface. As with most other public spaces, that had not been so in the days that followed what had happened. There usually hadn’t been enough left for relatives of pedestrians to be certain whom they should claim, and other factors had militated against removal: disinclination to tamper with an active crime scene (until it became plain that the crime scene was the world); a (false) rumour sweeping through the febrile Internet that the dust itself was toxic; piety, or dread.

Much of the dust had lain where it had fallen, while people stepped around. A few, who thought they were edgy, wrote in it. Graham had read in the _Mirror_ that a Preston man was beaten half to death for doing that. As time passed, wind and rain stepped in where resolution failed.

Not all the dust had been left alone, of course. Even in the nightmare minutes after it happened, there had been those with the presence of mind to do what was needful.

(“We can’t leave her out here, Graham,” Yaz had said.

“What?”

“She told me once. There are things that would rip this world apart for a Time Lord’s DNA.”

“Are you serious? How could anyone get DNA from… from that?”

“We can’t take the chance.” This wasn’t the voice of Our Yaz, the little girl, all teeth and elbows, who had gone on to do so well for herself. This was Probationary PC Yasmin Khan, the Long Arm of whatever Law was left. “I’ll see to it, Graham, as quickly as I’m able. And then… then we’ll do what we can for the survivors.”)

***

“It’s dimmer than I remembered,” said Graham, looking back as Gwen stepped into the Control Room. He cocked his head. A deep, repeated note, its origin unseen, had begun to toll across the chamber. “Never heard that before, either.”

“I think that’s called the Cloister Bell,” said Gwen. “It means that there’s an existential threat: to the TARDIS; to the Space-Time Continuum; or to both. My boss travelled with The Doctor, you see; he told me about it. There was a year when that was basically the sound-track.”

Graham shivered. “Why is it so dark?”

“Because the TARDIS is dying.” The Welsh voice sounded sad. “Her kind don’t do well when their other half is gone. A lot like us, really.”

“Yes. A lot like us.” There was a wedding ring, Graham had noticed, on Gwen Cooper’s finger. He made a firm decision not to ask. “The console’s over here.”

“Right. Decided not to stint the crystals this time round, I see. What does that bit do?”

“Dispenses custard creams.”

Gwen wrinkled her nose. “Bit chalky for my taste. More of a Milk Chocolate Hobnob girl, myself.”

“I was always on at the Doc for Nice biscuits.”

“Also a solid choice. ”

“I was the wrong side of fifty before I realized that they’re pronounced like the city and not the adjective. ‘ _Neece_ ’, not ‘nice’.” Graham peered at the console. “Directions, please.”

Gwen pressed the envelope into his hand.

“Champion. Is the one at the top where we’re going first?”

“Yes.” Gwen watched as Graham bent to his task. “Are you able to get us there?”

“Should be, but you might want to take a load off. It’ll be a while before we’re underway. I was never as fast at doing this as Yaz.” Graham looked up from the console. “You know who I mean by that, right? Thus far, you’ve seemed to know everything else.”

“Yes – I do. Yasmin Khan, of the Hallamshire Police. Good copper; I’d have been proud to serve with her.”

“You were Old Bill, too?”

“Once, long ago. If I’m honest, I see a lot of myself in her.”

“That’s nice.”

“No, Graham.” Gwen’s voice was sad, again, as she settled on the floor. “It isn’t nice.”

***

“When you said ‘short trips’…” Graham watched a rhinoceros amble past.

Gwen shrugged. “Short for the TARDIS. We’re still on Earth.”

“Africa?”

“Wakanda.”

“That rings a bell. Been in the news, lately?”

“Yes. For hundreds of years, Wakanda prided itself on presenting a public face so devoid of interest that the wider world left it alone. That takes dedication, believe me. You have no idea how dull a nation has to pretend to be for the English not to bother to try to conquer it. My people never managed that – and we had eisteddfodau. The reality of Wakanda, as you can see,” Gwen shaded her eyes to follow the course of a small, silvery jet, which had risen in a vertical take-off from behind a nearby copse, until it darted away towards the mountains, “was rather different.”

“Didn’t I read that this was where it all kicked off, just before… what happened, happened?”

“It kicked off in several places.” Gwen, in front again, waited for Graham to catch up at the top of a small hill. “But yes: Wakanda was Shitstorm Central. This was where Torchwood headed, as soon as we saw the writing on the wall.”

“What did you do?”

“What Torchwood does best.” Gwen still had not moved. Graham’s eyes widened, as he saw what lay before them in the road. “We failed.”

A dark column twisted in their path. The humid air churned with dust and sudden lightning. From moment to moment, Graham thought that he glimpsed textures hanging in the roil: a hint of flesh, an intimation of bone. But then the dust would dance again, and usher in another instant’s seeming.

“What in the blue blazes is that?” he asked.

“That’s my boss.” Gwen bit her lip. “ _This man must fall, as all men must; the fate of all is always dust_. We didn’t imagine that that would apply to him.”

“I’ve never seen the dust behave like that.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen an immortal.” Gwen was rummaging in her jacket. “The force that kept him going is as powerful as the one that made him dust.”

Graham turned his eyes away. “Can he still feel what’s going on?”

“Let’s hope not.” Gwen produced what seemed to be a crystal bead from her pocket. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked forward, and thrust the bead into the midst of the coiling column. Light kindled in the crystal as she retrieved and pocketed it. “A contact should be meeting us here shortly.”

She glanced back in Graham’s direction, and nodded. “Ah. Speak of the devil. Good to see you again, General.”

Graham turned. A statuesque bald woman was standing on the brow of the hill behind him. She was dressed like an extra from _Flash Gordon_ , and built like someone to whom you would think twice before mentioning that.

“Gwen Cooper.” The tall woman inclined her head. “Who is your friend?”

 “This is Graham O’Brien. He’s helping me with the project we discussed. Graham, this is Okoye. She’s in charge of the military here in Wakanda.”

Okoye nodded at Graham. “Well met, Graham O’Brien.”

“May I have a word with the boss?” said Gwen.

“Of course.”

“Fantastic.” Gwen came back up the hill. “This won’t take long, Graham. Would you mind looking after the TARDIS while I’m gone?”

“No problem. I’ll hold the fort till you get back.” Graham reddened, wondering whether “fort” had sounded a bit colonial. But Gwen and General Okoye were already walking away, talking to each other in low tones.

***

“What was he like, then? Your boss, I mean.”

After Africa, the next three stops had been, if Graham was blunt, a bit of a let-down. Gwen had plotted a path to a street in Ealing, to Blackpool Pleasure Beach, and to a forsaken spot on the coast of Northumberland. Each time, she had left Graham minding the TARDIS.

Gwen had been subdued, since the quiet hill in Wakanda. For all his curiosity, Graham felt wary about broaching the subject. But, after a short silence, Gwen replied:

“He was the most amazing man I ever met. Charismatic, dangerous, and kind. Not always the best leader in the world, mark you. He sometimes made bloody terrible decisions, though I can hardly lob the first stone at him for that. He was a hero.”

“Sounds like a great man.”

“He was. And now he’s gone. I’ve outlived the entire organization that made me, even the bit that technically can’t die.” Gwen’s lips twisted. “And I’ve managed that, not because I was the best, or the strongest, and, God alone knows, not because I was the smartest, but because I’m lucky.”

“I know the feeling.” Graham put down the envelope for a moment, and stared off into space. “I was right there when the Doc… when The Doctor died. It took a while with her – you know how it took different lengths of time with different people?”

Gwen nodded.

“I saw every expression on her face, as it began. She knew exactly what was coming. The Doc could think so _quickly_ , that was the thing. Faster than any human, and she sped up when she was scared. How much did she work out in those final few seconds before she was dust? More than I’d be able to think through in a dozen lifetimes.” Graham tapped the envelope against the console. “The last thing she did before the end was to look me in the eye, and say: ‘Don’t you dare, Graham O’Brien; don’t you dare’. I still have no idea what she meant by that.”

“Maybe you’ll find out.” Gwen’s expression was inscrutable behind the shades that she had come back wearing from her Northumberland excursion. Graham wondered whether global warming had hit the north-east coast. “Last hop now before the big one.”

“Where to?”

“Cardiff.” Gwen peered over Graham’s shoulder as he worked on the co-ordinates. “Origin stories are so fashionable now, aren’t they? Cardiff is mine.”

***

Cardiff passed off without incident. Once again, Gwen left Graham with the TARDIS.

The final trip was different from the others. Graham didn’t understand the theory behind destination co-ordinates (Yaz, he was fairly sure, hadn’t, either), but he could tell that the last set diverged markedly from the other five. The TARDIS stayed in flight for longer; there was a palpable shudder on arrival. Gwen exhaled.

“Journey’s end.” She bent over the console, and kissed it gently. “Thanks, old girl. Rest well.”

“Where are we?” asked Graham.

Gwen was already in the doorway. “Come and see.”

“You want me with you again this time?”

“Absolutely.”

***

“Looks a bit like Devon,” said Graham, as they trudged through rolling fields.

Gwen halted to survey the landscape. She still hadn’t taken off the shades from Northumberland. “Yes. It does look a bit like Devon.” She started walking again. “It isn’t Devon.”

“I always loved the countryside. Used to go rambling in the Dales a lot with…” Graham stopped.

“It’s OK to talk about him, you know. If you want to.”

Graham stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“Like you said, Graham,” Gwen turned, and put a hand on his shoulder: “I know everything.”

A long moment passed, before Graham responded. He noticed that he couldn’t hear any birds.

“Do you remember a comedian called Tommy Cooper?” he said, eventually.

“Big bloke; did magic tricks; wore a fez? Which will never be cool, by the way, whatever certain people may believe.”

“That’s the one. Relation, was he?”

Gwen smiled. “Not as far as I know.”

“He died on stage. Massive heart attack, I think it was. The audience were in stitches; they all thought it was part of the routine. One of his mates was watching, though, and that bloke knew at once that something was wrong. He fell down so neatly, you see. Tommy Cooper never did anything graceful.”

Graham cleared his throat. Still no sound of birds.

“My Ryan… he had dyspraxia. His life was rush-hour on the London Tube. When he started falling, it was the first time I’d ever seen him graceful. He was one of the ones where it was quick.” Graham wiped his hand across his face. “Nothing of my grandson hit the ground.”

“Have you spoken to Yasmin about it?” Gwen’s fingers were light upon his shoulder.

“Yaz has enough on her plate, without worrying about an old fool like me. It’s all hands to the pumps down at the Station, ever since what happened. Yaz sleeps on a camper-bed beside her desk; she doesn’t… she doesn’t really have a home to go to, now. I can’t be the one who carves another line in that girl’s forehead.”

“Talk to her,” Gwen pulled Graham into a brief, fierce hug. “It’ll be good for both of you.”

“Thank you.” Graham patted Gwen’s back awkwardly, before pulling away. He felt warmth on the back of his neck, and looked up. “Sun’s come out, I see.”

“So it has.” Gwen glanced upwards before walking on. “Word to the wise, Graham: stay between me and the sun.”

“Why? Did you forget your Factor 50?”

“Also, once we reach our destination, don’t move forward when I do, whatever happens.”

“Definitely not Devon, then.” Graham frowned. “Where have you brought us, Gwen?”

“All will be clear, soon enough,” Gwen said over her shoulder. “But talk to Yaz. How long has it been since you did that?”

“Not since we went back to clear out the TARDIS.” Graham’s frown deepened. “That’s odd.”

“What?”

“The Cloister Bell. I didn’t hear it after the Doc died, or when Yaz and I came back later. In fact, it only started when you walked into the TARDIS.”

“We’re here,” said Gwen.

***

They had skirted a clump of trees, and come upon an open field. In it, beside a plough, there stood, for want of a better word, a man. Graham had known more than a few prop forwards in his time; this bloke made them all look like the Seven Dwarves. His skin was purple, which was the kind of characteristic that Graham was out of practice at not noticing.

There was a massive, golden gauntlet on his left hand.

“Identify yourselves,” the giant said.

“Ah yes; introductions.” Gwen stepped forward, with the slightest of motions to Graham to stay put. “Graham O’Brien – Thanos; Thanos – Graham O’Brien. Graham is a retired bus-driver and all-round top bloke. Supports the Lilywhites, I think, but no one’s perfect. Thanos is the murdering porphyry cunt who thought that _Sophie’s Choice_ was an instruction manual.”

The giant called Thanos snorted. “And what about you?”

Gwen smiled. “Why don’t you find out?”

“You smell human.” Thanos strode forward and backhanded Gwen across the face. Graham gritted his teeth; remembered Gwen’s warning; held his ground. Gwen reeled, but did not fall. The shades dropped, broken, to the grass. “Yet a human would now be dead. What are you?”

“Human.” Gwen spat out blood, and raised her head. Her naked eyes gleamed yellow in the sun. “But with passengers. Just after I learnt the way the world works, so long ago, another prick with delusions of grandeur took my husband from me. I called up a dark god because of that. I was young, then, and very stupid. This time, I called up four.” She smiled again. “Abaddon’s mostly in the cocktail for nostalgia, but I won’t deny his resilience is handy. Wouldn’t want to go down in the first before the party’s started.”

Thanos raised his gauntleted left hand. Gwen snapped her fingers. The purple giant staggered backwards, as the orange stone on the back of the gauntlet flared and darkened.

“What have you done, witch?”

“Witch?” Gwen shook her head. “No. Magic takes skill. Magicians stick with what they can control – prudent, but limiting. The word you’re groping for is ‘cultist’. Since you ask: I just offered your daughter The Trickster’s bargain. She’ll regret accepting it, in the end – everyone does – but, until then, she lives again. Her sacrifice is void, which takes the Soul Stone off-line, and omnipotence off the menu. Your move.”

Thanos’ eyes narrowed. Green light swirled above the gauntlet, only to flicker and die. Gwen’s smile widened. “How sweet. You tried to claw omnipotence back by rewinding the last few seconds. Fenric’s time-storms put a stop to that. Is that all, Thanos?” She held out her right hand, palm downwards, parallel to the ground. “Can’t a Mad Titan show a girl a better time than this?”

Thanos balled his gauntleted fist. Gwen laughed aloud. There was a snap; the gauntlet fell from his hand.

“Paper wraps stone,” said Gwen. “The Toymaker is such a stickler for his games. I win.”

Thanos chuckled, low in his chest: “No – you don’t.”

***

The first punch was to Gwen’s abdomen, doubling her up.

“You’re out of tricks, widow-woman.”

The second was a right hook to the face. Gwen tottered, throwing out an arm to stay upright.

“I don’t need the Gauntlet, for the likes of you. I have shattered pantheons with these bare hands. Did you truly think that you could come to this place of rest, with power borrowed from your mouldy gods, and take your tiny vengeance upon Thanos?”

The third blow drove Gwen to her knees. Graham’s knuckles tightened.

“You can’t kill me, little witch.”

Gwen raised bleary eyes to meet the giant’s. She smiled a bloody smile. “You’re right. I can’t. But I know a man who can.”

Thanos paused, fist poised. “What?”

“Look in your pocket, Graham.” Gwen winced, and clutched her ribs. “Not… not the one with the Cathedral City Cheddar and Branston sarnie.”

Graham’s fingers closed on metal, which he fished out into the light.

Thanos stared. “You do not know what you are holding.”

“No, mate,” said Graham, “but you do, because you’ve got an awful lot less lip all of a sudden.” He fingered the object – seemingly, some kind of pistol – and pointed it in Thanos’ direction. “What is this, Gwen?”

“A De-mat gun,” said Gwen. “The nearest to one I could manage, anyway.”

“How did it wind up in my pocket?” Graham’s lips thinned, as he remembered. “I see. You slipped it there when you hugged me, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Gwen nodded up at the motionless Thanos. “His Mind Stone couldn’t get inside my head, which is rather crowded. It could get inside yours, but you didn’t _know_ you were a threat, so you were discounted.”

“What can this thing do?”

“The true version is proprietary Time Lord tech. You’d need the Bling of Rassilon to work it. But an infusion of Bad Wolf energy from a broken immortal works almost as well, if you can find a genius to build it. The child-queen of Wakanda made that one. A De-mat gun can destroy Watchers, Celestials, Dalek Emperors. It can destroy Thanos here, now that I’ve broken his fingers.” Gwen bowed her head. “It can destroy me, despite what I’ve become.”

“Graham O’Brien, you must hear me,” Thanos said, in low and urgent tones: “the beasts that are riding her cannot leave this world.”

“Pipe down, sunshine,” said Graham, raising the gun. “You’re full of it.”

“No,” Gwen said, “I’m afraid he isn’t. That’s the deal, you see. My passengers get to use Infinity Stones as marbles, with the Universe as the stakes – if I survive. Thanos killed them all, Graham. He killed captains and kings and infants in their cradles. He killed my boss, my husband, and my child. He killed your grandson. He killed The Doctor. And he’s still better than what I let in to take him down.”

Graham’s hand trembled, the pistol pointing now at Thanos, now at Gwen. “Him or you? Him _and_ you? You can’t make me decide, Gwen. You can’t put that choice on me.”

“I already did. I told you that I needed a good driver. Not someone good at driving – a good driver. Someone to be good when I couldn’t remember how.”

_Grace’s broken body below the crane. Tim Shaw locked forever in his pod. Dust feathering to the pavement. “Don’t you dare.”_

“Your choice is clear, Graham O’Brien,” said Thanos.

“No use talking to me, mate,” said Graham. “I’m the driver.”

He pulled the trigger.

FINIS


End file.
